


L’appel Du Vide

by sewerkingcharlie



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Death References, Dissociation, Drug Abuse, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Near Death Experiences, Overdose, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Sad Ending, Set a year after season 14, basically charlie is trauma processing in all the unhealthiest ways and dennis tries to help, implied/referenced ocd, slightly abstract writing because charlie is high and it’s kind of pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28172088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewerkingcharlie/pseuds/sewerkingcharlie
Summary: L’appel du vide. The urge to hurl oneself into the void — an all encasing void, of grabbing hands and unforgiving pain and drugs and grain alcohol and agony.It’s a story Charlie knows far too well, yet a story he wishes he’d never heard.•••The void calls in the form of a bottle of grain alcohol and a container of gasoline. It grabs him, every damn time, waiting for him under the bridge, where he’s sat with his back to the brick foundations with the wind assailing his jaded body and tying knots ungraciously in his already unruly hair. He keeps coming back; these days, more often than not. He can’t stop. The call is loud and aggressive and the hands might seem weak because of how small or bony they are but they grab him, they’re strong, they don’t let him go, and then he’s sat hunched over a carton of gasoline with his nose buried in the unscrewed top with a half empty bottle of Everclear beside him and a brain that doesn’t have the strength to remain lucid.It’s too much. It’s too much. It’s too much.
Relationships: Charlie Kelly/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	L’appel Du Vide

It’s windy. The wind is harsh in its hair, whipping around the shelter of strong bricks, that have the bones of a spine leaning catatonically against their overbearing, orderly structure. There’s a temptation here, it realises; at the bridge. Fuck, there’s _always_ a temptation at the bridge. A call. A niggle in the back of its skull that grapples at the bone with unrelenting, bony hands. The feeling is elegiac, and weighs on its bones and flesh and skin, that are reminiscent of a body but without the defining elements that make a body alive. It’s a lump. It can’t ignore this shit anymore.

It’s name is Charlie. It knows that Charlie has a body, and Charlie has a personality, and Charlie has something inside his skull that’s not just hands, bony and small and ominous, fighting to destroy every last speck of conceptual existence left within the confines of his cranium. Charlie has a mind, and Charlie has a soul. But the soul is infested with vermin, legs in multiples of eight and hairy bodies as black as the Night Man’s karategi. 

Charlie is at the bridge again, but the renowned call of the void normally reaches people when they’re stood on top, leaning over the railings and facing the skyline. Charlie doesn’t feel it there, because he isn’t there. He’s under the bridge. He’s not an it, not yet at least. He knows this feeling doesn’t often reach him in high places; in fact, it’s so consistently experienced on the ground, Charlie doesn’t remember feeling this anywhere else.

This is it. This is the void, reaching out to him with hands, to which he doesn’t want to concede to. He always does, though. Gives in to the reaching, grabby, unrelenting hands. Story of his goddamn life. 

The void calls in the form of a bottle of grain alcohol and a container of gasoline. It grabs him, every damn time, waiting for him under the bridge, where he’s sat with his back to the brick foundations with the wind assailing his jaded body and tying knots ungraciously in his already unruly hair. He keeps coming back; these days, more often than not. He can’t stop. The call is loud and aggressive and the hands might seem weak because of how small or bony they are but they grab him, they’re strong, they don’t let him go, and then he’s sat hunched over a carton of gasoline with his nose buried in the unscrewed top with a half empty bottle of Everclear beside him and a brain that doesn’t have the strength to remain lucid.

It’s too much. It’s too much. It’s too much.

It’s cold under the bridge, and that probably has something to do with the fact that it’s raining, a torrential downpour falling in sheets, to make the rest of Philadelphia seem lost in a shroud. 

“I’m trapped,” Charlie slurs into the wet air, eyes half open and brain half on. “...M’ trapped like a r-rat n’here...” 

His body doesn’t move when he tries to tell it to. His own damn body, caging him into a drug-induced catatonia. It’s his own fault, or at least that’s what he tells himself. He knows better than to mix inhalants with alcohol. It doesn’t stop him though. “...S’ not like m’dead or nothin’ yet...” He mumbles aloud, responding to his own thought process. He’s right; he’s still alive, by some miracle. God only knows how he’s managed to survive more overdoses than he can count. 

He can hear something through the unforgiving wind and rain. A beeping. A ringing. A cell phone. _His_ cell phone. It’s in the pocket of his hoodie, he can feel it vibrating against his stomach. So he pulls it out, and tries to look at the screen for the caller ID, but he can’t make it out through the blur in his vision, and probably wouldn’t even be able to read it anyway, not whilst he’s this high. 

He answers it. Holds it to his ear. 

“Charlie, buddy!” The voice is warm, in a conversational greeting. It’s Dennis; that much is clear. Charlie can recognise Dennis’ voice anywhere. “How’s it going man? Thought you were supposed to be coming round to mine.”

“...Huh?” Charlie murmurs, voice thick with intoxication and fatigue. “S’that... s’posed to be n-now?”

“Yeah, Char,” Dennis says down the phone. Charlie can tell his voice has got softer, mostly from the shortened version of his name. Dennis always uses that when he’s being gentle. “What’s going on, man? Is everything okay?”

Charlie looks down at the container of gasoline, the bottle of Everclear, and tries desperately to make a cohesive sounding word. “... _Yeaaah..._ ” It comes out on a croaky sigh.

There’s a bit of quiet down the phone for a moment. Maybe a bit of rustling, distantly, and a door closing. “Are you outside, Char?” Dennis asks, with a tone to his voice that sounds a lot more obviously like concern to Charlie. It feels agonisingly comforting. It’s so warm it’s hot, and burning, and it hurts. Like the pleasant high from sniffing kerosene, but the agonising burn when it spills over his shaky hands. 

“I guess.”

“Then you’re an idiot, there’s a weather warning for today,” Dennis says down the phone. Irritatingly, his voice is more gentle than before.

“...Yeah,” Charlie says absently, his brain fighting with his consciousness to tune out to the conversation that hasn’t even started yet.

There’s a brief pause again, and the sound of fabric moving. Charlie can recognise that much. “I’m gonna come pick you up, dude,” Dennis eventually speaks again. 

“N.... No...” Charlie croaks. “N... N’cause... You’ll get grabbed n’ stuff too then... Not safe here.”

“There’s somebody grabbing you?” Dennis asks immediately, and the concern is overwhelming Charlie now. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve anything good outside of the void. He doesn’t like it here, but that’s where the bony bird and tiny lawyer hands think he should stay. 

“I... I guess...” Charlie frowns. Doesn’t know how to explain any of that with words, not right now. “K—Kinda...”

Dennis is quiet again for a moment. “...I’m on my way, Cat.”

Charlie opens his mouth to respond to that, but no words come out. Dennis doesn’t call him that often. Only in times where he’s obviously worried, and obviously protective. And although they’ve been dating on the down-low for about a year now, which means Dennis has seen plenty of Charlie’s bad times, it’s still a nickname that’s rarely used. 

Charlie’s not complaining. He’s not really thinking anything cohesive right now, though. It just slips over him, tucking into the back of his mind to remember about later. “But... Y’don’t know wh— like, where...”

“I’m on my way,” Dennis repeats, his voice radiating a weird and foreign level of warmth. It’s almost sad sounding. Charlie’s not sure of much right now, but he knows Dennis, and he knows that sounds sad. 

Dennis hangs up, but that’s okay. Charlie doesn’t know what words to put together anyway, and hardly even realises that Dennis has hung up, let alone that they were even talking. 

Time passes. Does it? Charlie’s not really sure. He can’t quite grab time as a conceptual idea in his head right now; he can grab the hazy vision of rain, and how the landscape looks like it’s frozen in a static loop as the sheets of water drown the city. It’s as if it’s never going to change, never going to stop, and he’s going to be stuck in this existential freeze point forever, unmoving, unblinking.

But then, there’s movement, and Charlie sees a vague silhouette approach through the downpour, down the slope to the base of the bridges foundations. And as the silhouette approaches, it grows quickly clearer. It’s Dennis. Obviously. 

It looks like he’s running, holding something over his arm, shielding himself from the torrential rain with the other. He nears Charlie, whose vision is still hazy, trying to focus on the figure approaching him, crouching beside him under the slight shelter of the bridge. 

“Hey,” Dennis says quietly, offering Charlie a small smile, looking at the Everclear and gasoline with an obvious twinge of worry. Not that Charlie can process the worry on his face right now, obvious or not.

Weakly, Charlie makes a little noise of acknowledgement, holding up his hand in a thumbs up. Dennis chuckles quietly, sadly, exhaling out of his nose in lieu of a vocal sound. 

He’s carrying a waterproof jacket over his arm, wearing one himself already. It’s Mac’s, technically, because all of his own jackets are too small for Charlie, and Mac’s not home tonight, so he can’t whinge about it. “Put this on, Char, it’s fucking freezing today,” he says, in as much of a lighthearted tone he can manage, to cut through the sadness, the seriousness of his worry. 

Charlie mumbles an incoherent phrase, reaching a hand out in a wobbly, unstable motion, trying to blindly reach for the coat. Dennis hands it forwards, watches Charlie’s hand weakly clutch at it, before taking initiative, opening the jacket out and shrugging it over his shoulders. 

Charlie hums a quiet noise and pulls the coat around him snugly, only now realising how cold it is against the vague warmth of the waterproof. “Th... Thanks...” he manages to get out, slurred and barely conscious, but a word nonetheless. 

Dennis nods and offers a smile, but it doesn’t seem to register with Charlie, so he sits down beside him on the damp floor, back against the brick structure of the bridge foundations. Shoulder to shoulder. He pulls his own jacket snug, shivering a little in the harsh wintry wind. 

It’s not the first time Dennis has done this with Charlie. It’s growing to be a more frequently occurring event; now, he knows exactly where to find Charlie if he’s wasted like this. It’s the one place he comes. 

“I know you can handle your booze and inhalants, Char, but,” Dennis starts in a gentle voice. It’s a particular tone of voice that the rest of the gang aren’t all that familiar with. It’s saved solely for Charlie. “...I reckon half a bottle of grain alcohol with the gas is a bit much, buddy.”

Charlie shakes his head slightly. Then he stops, and shrugs instead. He makes a small sound, that Dennis reads as _‘whatever, man...’_ which is a fairly clear indication that he got through to Charlie a little with the comment.

“...Has it been a shit day?” He asks.

Charlie nods, slowly, his body slumping a little so he’s leaning his weight on Dennis. His head falls in a flop to the familiar, warm shoulder beside him. Warm, in every sense but physical right now. It’s freezing outside, and the rain is catching them both in spatters, even beneath the shelter. “Yeah...” he mumbles in response, diction muffled and dopey and wholly unhappy. “F-Ffffuckin’... _really_ sh...shit...”

Dennis doesn’t prompt further. He knows that Charlie will speak if he wants to, if he can.

“S’just...” Charlie slurs his words, feeling marginally safer sat next to somebody he knows he can trust. “J... jus’ the... bad things... N-Night man... won’t fuck the f... _fuck_ off...”

Dennis understands. He’s quiet, doesn’t respond verbally, but slowly rests his head atop Charlie’s. He knows Charlie well enough to know that Jack is plaguing him, either in his mind or in reality; to Charlie, in his mind is just as real, but in a literal sense, Dennis knows that it can come in the form of dreams, intrusive thoughts, the occasional drug-induced hallucination. 

Oftentimes, Dennis wishes Charlie would go to therapy. He never would have used to wish this, knowing how much Charlie is so adamantly opposed to it. But now they’re both inching towards being forty six, and there’s so much healing to make up for; Dennis can see that now. Not so much for himself — he’s just as opposed to therapy as the next guy, but after over a year of his _thing_ with Charlie, whatever that thing may be defined as, his understanding of the guy has deepened. As has his empathy. His sympathy. His desire for him to be happy. 

It’s sappy, and gross, and not like Dennis. But there’s only so many times he can kiss Charlie without tasting chemicals, only so many times he can hug Charlie without feeling the subtle twitches of his muscles. Only so many times he can come to the bridge and see Charlie, on the verge of unconsciousness from another overdose, without feeling— and feeling a _lot_.

“Shall I drive us back to my place?” Dennis asks, cutting through the quiet. “It’s warm there.”

Charlie nods sluggishly, trying to reach a stable hand towards him, his fingers unsteady and arm heavy. It feels like his body isn’t his own, or is dead, or his arm weighs three times what it normally does, or all of the above. He vaguely feels dripping over his philtrum, warm and quick, making his upper lip twitch a little. 

Dennis meets Charlie halfway, gently resting the side of his hand against his, and nods as well, feeling his damp hair move against his ear as he does so. “Reckon you can get to the car?” He asks, as casually as he can without sounding uncaring. Charlie hates feeling patronised, so Dennis doesn’t. 

“...Y-Yeah...” Charlie manages to stutter out, but as his mouth opens to speak, something drips into his mouth, as the rest trails slowly down his cheek. Blood. His brows twitch in a vague frown. Tries to articulate it. “D—D...nn’s...”

“Yeah?” 

Charlie releases a slow, shallow breath. “Iss... m’... u-uh...” he makes an effort to lift his head, fighting against the weight of a seeming nothingness fighting it. His brain bounces off the insides of his skull, eyes spinning out, so he drops his head back to Dennis’ shoulder. “...f’ck’n... n-n...nose...”

Dennis raises a confused eyebrow, lifting his head from atop Charlie’s and gently shifting his body. “Hold on, let me have a look bud,” he says softly, carefully using both of his hands to support Charlie’s head, lifting it ever so slightly from his shoulder. 

There’s blood dripping from his nose. Not gushing, not by any means. A slow trail down his face, smearing over his dry, chapped lips. “Shit, Char, how much petrol did you sniff?” Dennis asks with a little frown. He’s not too shocked — this has happened before, he’s seen it a handful of times. It’s still not very comforting to see, though, a baseline anxiety creeping into his chest.

Charlie’s eyes open enough to look at Dennis, hazy and unfocused, his expression twisting into sluggish amusement. “Like... ‘lot, d... dude...” he mumbles obviously, lips twitching almost depressingly. Accepting off the situation, although he really shouldn’t be. 

With a quiet sigh, Dennis closes his eyes for a brief moment, trying to gather himself. He reopens his eyes, and tries to think of what to do, the blood flowing a little more consistently now. “Uh—” he stumbles, reaching into his coat pockets for tissues, ideally, although he doesn’t find any. His pockets only have keys, his phone, his wallet and a packet of sugar free mints. “I’ve got tissues in the car, you’ll just have to pinch it with your fingers until then, okay?” 

Charlie nods, his head having hung a little from the weight of keeping it upright himself. “Uh-huh,” he mumbles, slowly reaching a hand up to his face, trying aimlessly to pincer his forefinger and thumb, but missing his nose completely. It makes him spin out, a wave of nausea coursing through him. He squeezes his eyes shut. His face goes a little pale. 

“Hey,” Dennis says. “C’mon, man, don’t hurt yourself trying...” He sees the nausea on Charlie’s face and grimaces slightly at the thought of vomit. He swallows down the small amount of pride he has left, and brings his hand up to Charlie’s face, gently swiping the blood away, before carefully pinching his nose. “Breathe through your mouth.”

Charlie does so, parting his lips and trying to breathe through his mouth. It’s confusing to him; how much less air he can find through his mouth, trying to take a gulp of air but cutting it off with an uncomfortable sound half way through, feeling the nausea creep back. 

“The things I do for you,” Dennis chuckles quietly, although he’s not happy, nor is he even slightly amused by this. It’s just fucking sad. Plain fucking sad. Charlie doesn’t seem to get better, and under the blasé cover, Dennis is absolutely terrified that the next time Charlie huffs gas or glue or sniffs an aerosol, it’ll be the last time. 

He’s not sure what he’d do without Charlie. It’s not like he’s alone in coming to the rescue when the other is hurt — Charlie’s been the rescuer plenty of times; Dennis being in different situations to his own, but not too far separated with the roots of the issues. 

Maybe that’s why they’ve been so good for each other this last year or so. There’s a mutual empathy between them. Uncle Jack, Dee, Ms Klinsky. Different names and different situations but achingly similarly shaped scars. The main difference is that Charlie’s scars are more in the shape of inhalants and sewers and chemical burns, and Dennis’ scars are more in the shape of binging and purging and cutting and crack. 

The empathy remains. If Charlie and Dennis had nothing else, they would have empathy. But they _do_ have something else, and that’s the wonderful, horrible, beautiful, painful thing about it. 

It makes things more complicated. Feelings, and connections, and attraction, and love— or at least, something reminiscent. It makes everything about it ten times harder; especially the current situation, of Dennis holding Charlie’s nose to stop a drug-induced nose bleed, and Charlie struggling to breathe because his body is going much, much slower than it should be. 

“We’re gonna have to get to the car sooner rather than later,” Dennis says quietly, still pinching Charlie’s nose, not tilting his head back in case he swallows the blood. “It sucks out here. Rainy and cold as shit.”

Charlie makes a small noise. “‘S... fuckin’ bad...” he mumbles in agreement, eyes barely open. 

“You sure picked a day for it,” Dennis jokes, and Charlie knows it’s a joke; Dennis knows Charlie doesn’t choose when this happens, just as much as Dennis doesn’t choose when he has a bad day himself. 

Charlie releases a broken chuckle of breath, cutting it off halfway to focus on breathing with as much of his consciousness as he can. 

They sit there for a few minutes, Dennis pinching Charlie’s nose, Charlie trying not to pass out. It’s when Dennis experimentally lets go and sees the blood flow has stopped, he pulls his hand back completely, fingertips a little bloody. 

Charlie tries to breathe through his nose but it’s a little clogged to start, choking a sluggish, grating cough. 

“Okay,” Dennis says as a mindless comfort. Watches at Charlie recovers from the sudden cough, and flashes him a little thumbs up, free hand resting on his shoulder. “You good?”

Charlie nods, wiping his nose with a harsh sniff on his damp sleeve. 

Dennis makes a small sound of acknowledgment, and looks at Charlie with an expression of fondness, exhaustion and sadness all at once. “Come on then, buddy. Let’s go get warm, yeah?”

“...M’ comfy...” Charlie slurs drearily, in protest of having to get up and walk and use his body that feels like it’s a wobbling bundle of gas, about to stop wobbling at any second and turn into a liquid state. 

“Bullshit,” Dennis says lightheartedly. “There is no chance in hell that you’re comfy right now.” He gestures to the brick wall, the damp floor, the torrential rain that they’re hardly sheltered from. 

Charlie shrugs weakly. “Don’t wanna get up...” he says honestly, not lucid enough to pose it as anything else. 

Dennis closes his eyes, trying to get rid of the frustration before it arises. Now’s not the time. “So you planning to sit here all night, genius?” He chuckles quietly, slowly getting to his feet but keeping his body low. “It’s not like I’m not gonna help you, bud.”

Charlie looks up at Dennis and blinks slowly. “...’Kay,” he eventually says, vaguely. Dennis offers out his arm for Charlie to use as leverage to get up, which he immediately uses, heavy hands holding onto Dennis’ arms and slowly, agonisingly slowly, stumbles to his feet. 

He sways and almost trips, but Dennis catches him, arm supporting him around the waist. “I’ve got you, man.”

Charlie makes a little noise of appreciation, a slight nod. 

Dennis manages to get Charlie away from the foot of the bridge without taking the Everclear and gasoline with them, focusing on getting to the car in one piece, navigating through the pouring rain. Charlie trips and stumbles, which makes Dennis also do so in his wake, struggling under Charlie’s leaning weight but persists, determined. The ground is slippery, and Charlie is barely conscious enough to stand, and Dennis isn’t going to pretend to be strong. But they manage it, struggling up the bank towards Dennis’ car. 

Charlie passes out the second he’s sat in the passenger seat, head slumped against the window, breathing slow. Asleep, unconscious. There’s not much Dennis can do in the car besides look at him with less repressed concern, pinch his own forehead, and drive. 

•••

“You need to drink more.”

Dennis sits on the edge of his bed, holding a practically untouched glass of water with an almost stern expression. 

“M’not drinking water, man...” Charlie grumbles. He’s laying in Dennis’ bed, curled up, wearing some borrowed pyjamas after his own got soaking wet in the rain. A long few hours have passed— albeit, most of it spent sleeping, and Dennis stressing out on his own, in the living room. Mac’s out still; he’s gone into the city for the night after deciding he needed a night to himself. Aka— he’s gone to get laid. Dennis knows Mac well enough to have figured that much out. 

“What, you want beer or something?” Dennis deadpans, looking upon Charlie, a twitching, unwashed, coming down lump of a human. 

Charlie nods. “Obviously.”

“...You drank half a fucking bottle of grain alcohol, Char,” Dennis says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Beer’s not gonna sober you up. It’s just gonna get you landed in hospital— You know, you— you really, actually should be in hospital.”

“Comfy.”

“Charlie—”

“N—Not going to the f...fuckin’ hospital.” Charlie holds his hand up in a dismissive wave. Curls in further on himself, embeds himself into Dennis’ quilt and mattress and blankets, as if it’ll make him an unmovable rock. “Jus’... wanna beer.”

“You’re not having a goddamn beer— Christ...” Dennis cuts himself off. He pinches his forehead with unforgiving fingers and tries not to throw the glass of water. He tries not to get angry. It isn’t the time. It’s not Charlie’s fault. _Rationalise. Deep breath._ “I-I... I can’t give you more booze. It’ll fuck with the petrol fumes, or some science thing about drugs and mixing n’ shit.”

Charlie shrugs. Silent. 

Dennis swallows down a frustrated sound. He doesn’t want to be angry at Charlie. He’s blindly fucking in love with Charlie, he _knows_ that Charlie’s had a shit mental health day, he knows it all. He knows he should be more audibly caring and gentle, as he was earlier. He tries harder, but it really is hard. It’s so goddamn hard to see Charlie get so close to fatally overdosing so much more frequently. What started as the fairly common glue overdose has grown more and more sinister, especially in the last couple of years. 

Spending most of his days with Dee and being constantly plagued by Uncle Jack, who’s staying at his mom’s again at the moment, probably hasn’t helped that. Not one bit. 

Charlie’s tired of masking everything to the gang, and Dennis can see that. But Charlie’s comfortable with Dennis, and vice versa, which means when they’re having their respective blips, it all spills out to the other after building up for days or weeks at a time. It gets too intense sometimes. ~~Charlie’s too close to the edge for comfort.~~ It’s too intense now. 

Dennis wants to fucking scream. It’s too much. _Not the time, Dennis. Focus._

Charlie huddles warmer into the covers subconsciously after an extended silence. “Y—Y’ mad at me...” It’s a statement. Not a question. 

Nevertheless, Dennis shakes his head, shocked out of his diverting train of thought as Charlie speaks. He puts the glass on the bedside table, and ever so slightly rests a hand on Charlie’s leg. “I swear I’m not mad, buddy, it’s just... It sucks. More for you, obviously, but it still sucks.”

Charlie hums an absent noise of acknowledgment, or actually, agreement; Dennis is right. It sucks a lot. 

He hesitates for a long moment, before making the decision to push himself up a little, despite his body’s best efforts to keep him unmoving. He reluctantly picks up the glass of water, keeping his hand as stable as possible, and takes three long sips. 

_’Sorry.’_

Dennis softens a little, and fiddles with his fingers in his lap. He watches Charlie drink the water. He feels the silent apology, it doesn’t need to be verbalised. He looks into his lap and sighs. “Do you want a hug, Char...?”

Charlie looks at Dennis with an expression that’s hard to read. His eyes are a little hazy, and his face is sunken, maybe sad, maybe loving, maybe scared. Maybe all of it at once... Maybe nothing. 

He puts the glass back down. Let’s himself lay back down, flat on his back, pushing down the nausea it brings him. “Y... Yeah,” he mumbles. “—Ju—Just don’t like... use m’for sex or nothin’... ‘kay?”

Dennis doesn’t get offended. He just sighs. “Charlie, have I ever done that to you?”

Charlie shrugs. Stares at the ceiling. “N-Not yet.”

“Not ever,” Dennis chuffles sadly. “You can always trust me.” He shuffles onto the bed properly, crawling up clumsily to lay next to Charlie. “You might be the one single human being that I’ve been with who I _haven’t_ used for sex. Don’t worry.”

Charlie nods. He’s still looking at the ceiling. He’s not sure what he’s feeling but it’s close to sadness. It’s familiar. He’s still too fucked out of his mind on drugs to even recognise what he’s feeling, but it feels numb and empty, but agonisingly painful and full at the same time. It feels heavy, like he’s being weighed down by the mass of another human, and it feels hard to breathe, like he’s being smothered into a pillow or having his mouth covered by bony, spidery hands. 

He curls onto his side, facing Dennis, and he doesn’t make eye contact. That feels like a bad idea. That feels like it would make him start crying, and he hates crying. So he stares blankly at Dennis’ chest, and his t-shirt is a deep blue, illuminated by the warm, orange toned light of the bedside lamp. It feels okay that way. 

After a moment, Charlie lets one of his heavy arms reach out and rest over Dennis’ torso. He touches first, when he has a day like this. He always does. Same for Dennis, when he’s having a day like this too. It’s safer that way.

Dennis slips an arm around Charlie, once he’s touched first, gently pulling him into a hug. Charlie rests his head on Dennis’ chest. Dennis rests a hand in Charlie’s hair. They’re quiet, don’t exchange words, because there’s really no need, unless there becomes a need. But until words are necessary, they remain unspoken, and communicated through body language, tiny gestures, the movement of breath. 

Dennis taps his fingers slow and gentle onto Charlie’s head, through his damp hair. _One, two, three._ Clear triplets at a morosely stunted speed, trying to match the rhythm of Charlie’s inhales and exhales, which are so slow and quiet, it’s almost hard to recognise a rhythm at all. 

It’s a comforting ritual of Charlie’s that Dennis has learned. It comes as second instinct. Do everything three times, to stop Charlie from dying. He first learned it from his mom, Bonnie, and then it got stuck in his head. And now Dennis knows it, and uses it to soothe Charlie in bad moments, to remind him that he’s still alive, and that whilst they’ve still got those simple numbers, he’ll continue to be. It’s second nature. A silent language. 

Dennis isn’t sure if he’s tapping three times right now to reassure Charlie, or himself. Maybe both. 

The silence feels like a kick in the gut but a comforting smile all at once. It’s like getting beaten to near death, but then being picked off the floor by your mother, smiling a sickly smile and stroking your sweaty hair from your forehead, humming the tune of ‘The Rainbow Connection’, sat on the pavement, drenched to the skin. And that’s specific, maybe a bit too specific. Maybe specific to the first time Charlie got in a fist fight as a child, when Bonnie found him outside, blood pooling from his mouth and streaking into the gutter in the rain. 

It’s bittersweet.

Charlie hugs Dennis tighter, hooking a leg around one of his like a goddamn koala bear. 

“I...” he opens his mouth to speak, but the sound comes out as a mere croak, a hushed and broken sound. He swallows a lump in his throat. “I—I don’t w’nna be like... _this_ anymore...” he gets out. The words are slurred, partially muffled by Dennis’ t-shirt, partially by the figurative hands and sweaty scented pillows covering his mouth. 

His eyes feel wet, as does the fabric of Dennis’ t-shirt where he rests his head. 

Dennis nods slowly, and cards his fingers through his knotted, wet hair. “...I know, Char.”

Charlie looks blankly at Dennis’ t-shirt, his vision hazy and cloaked by a wobbly veil that makes the light from the bedside lamp streak across the room, in double vision and shooting lines.

Dennis notes a few things, whilst laying on his back with Charlie’s body clinging to him. Mostly, how he weighs less than he did a little over a year ago, when they first lay in this position — albeit, under very different circumstances. He’s lost a lot of his appetite, or he’s losing hours or days at a time. His skin is starting to discolour beneath his eyes, and tiredness isn’t a good look on Charlie. It dampens the brightness of his eyes, that once sparkled, like the time when Dennis finally agreed to play night crawlers, or when Charlie first discovered Sphynx cats. 

Dennis misses that. He misses the days when Charlie would struggle, and instead of nearly overdosing beneath a bridge, he’d sit in his one room apartment with a blanket around his shoulders and write a hit song with Dennis, on his cheap, tinny sounding keyboard. Dennis misses a lot of things about the way their lives were a decade ago. They were so much simpler than this. They were both so much younger.

These things aren’t funny anymore. Nobody is laughing. 

“One, two, three,” Dennis whispers, burying his face in Charlie’s hair. _’I don’t want you to die.’_

Charlie taps Dennis’ waist three times. _‘I don’t want to either.’_

He can’t help but wonder how much whiskey is left in the bleach containers. He can’t help but wonder if he should go and get his gasoline back from beneath the bridge and down the rest of the Everclear in one painful swoop. 

_I don’t want to die._

He can’t help but wonder if crack is a good option, because it worked at ruining Dennis, why not his too? He can’t help but wonder if the gang would care if he stopped going to work, and started going to hang out with Rickety Cricket. 

_I don’t want to die._

He can’t help but wonder if the call of the void will call loud enough one of these days, and tug him over the edge, leaving him at the bottom of a bridge whilst his organs fail. He can’t help but wonder if he should seek that, or let it find him, or listen to himself and run from it as far as he can. 

I don’t want to die. 

Charlie sniffs, and hugs Dennis tighter. His limbs shake, weighing heavy, and he parts his lips, a broken whisper tumbling out of his dry lips. 

“One... two... three...”

**Author's Note:**

> sorry lmao this was just fucking sad I have no excuse


End file.
